


The Cocktail Party

by wheel_pen



Series: Nicobar [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, M/M, Nicobar, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 18:54:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4972468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slave John is drafted to serve drinks at a cocktail party in the compound, but his poor attitude gets him into trouble again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cocktail Party

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.  
> This story is set in a fictional modern country where slavery is legal. There is a huge disparity between the very rich, who sequester themselves in luxurious compounds, and the rest of the population.  
> Inherent in slavery and other forms of subjugation are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.  
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

So, John was serving drinks at a cocktail party. Kind of a funny turn of events, really. There was something about a broken leg and the flu and the uniform not fitting anyone else, which was all rather ridiculous as explanations went, and anyway no one had to _convince_ a slave to do something. They were just _told_ to, and were expected to obey.

So, John was serving drinks at a cocktail party. Not so bad, really, something to do that was a bit different, and the room was beautiful—some kind of high-ceilinged atrium but with stars instead of plants, like the vast lobby of the world’s best planetarium. All dark, shiny tile glittering with flecks of gold and tiny twinkling lights in the ceiling above. Everyone was dressed up, and people here definitely knew how to dress—John wondered if it was some kind of fancy dress party, because it all seemed very Art Deco to him; he half-expected people to break into the Charleston at any moment.

It was mostly family—the Holmes compound supported a large extended family—and a few guests, plus the occasional slave acting in the capacity of companion. Anthea was there, for example, swanning around in a sparkly dress at Lord Mycroft’s side per usual. John saw Cedric Holmes passing nearby and quickly turned away to face the bar.

The bartender, fortuitously, was setting drinks on a tray. “Dirty snowball for Lady Sylvia and spunky monkey for Sir Rutherford,” he reported briskly.

Ah, here was the difficult part of serving drinks at a cocktail party—actually serving the drinks. “Who—“ John started to ask, but the bartender had turned away to attend to another customer.

John picked up the tray and faced the crowd, searching for anyone who looked like they might be waiting for a drink. Or anyone who might be sympathetic enough to help him out—not a free person, of course, but maybe another slave. Or hey—there was Sherlock. Sympathetic wasn’t really the right word there, but maybe he would help anyway.

John sailed over to him. “Hello,” he greeted. “G-d, you look good in that.” Sherlock was dressed in a snow white suit, which should have made him look like an ice cream salesman but instead emphasized his long legs and shapely rear end. “What are you doing later? You want a spunky monkey?”

Sherlock stared at him like he had two heads, which made John grin. “I think those were _my_ lines,” he finally replied dryly, and John laughed.

“Except for the spunky monkey bit,” John judged. “Hard to picture you saying that.” His attempt to do so was pretty amusing, though.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Who are the drinks for?” he asked boredly. He was always bored at these things.

“Uh, Lady Sylvia and Sir…” John trailed off. “Hmm, what was it? I think it started with an R.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Really, John? Do you actually _try_ to be the worst possible slave, or does it just come naturally to you?”

“Yes,” John deadpanned. Sherlock didn’t laugh, of course, but John didn’t really expect him to. “Well, you’ve got a big family,” he protested lightly, “and half of them seem to be alcoholics.”

Sherlock conceded that point. “Lady Sylvia is the old woman in the green dress,” he indicated, nodding in one direction. “Given the composition of the other drink, I predict Sir Rutherford—“

“That’s it!” John agreed.

“—who is the fat man in the tuxedo by the piano who is not my brother,” Sherlock finished. Everyone who wasn’t rail-thin was fat to him, by comparison. “You _do_ know what my brother looks like, at least?”

“Of course!” John asserted playfully. “What makes you think I didn’t know the others?”

His claim did not impress Sherlock. “Patently obvious,” Sherlock stated. “You should pay a _little_ more attention to your duties, John, don’t they teach you who’s who?”

“Actually we have flashcards,” John deadpanned, “though yours has some rather rude comments written on it.”

“Go!” Sherlock encouraged him severely, but somehow John didn’t think he was really irritated.

John was feeling pretty good, actually, what with his new policy of not actually thinking that much. This had only been going on for a couple of days, ever since the encounter with Cedric, but so far he could understand the appeal it held for Molly.

John maneuvered dexterously across the floor to Lady Sylvia. “One dirty snowball, madam,” he presented with a flourish. She took the drink with barely a glance at him and certainly no pause in her conversation. Well, that was preferable, really.

Then John went in the other direction, to the piano, where Sir Rutherford was animatedly talking at Lord Mycroft. Lord Mycroft noticed John when he arrived, because Lord Mycroft was looking for any distraction possible. “Your drink, Sir Rutherford,” John said discreetly, holding out the tray.

He was completely ignored. He waited a moment to see if there was just a delayed reaction, but it started to get rather awkward. “Your drink, sir,” John repeated, more loudly.

Still nothing. He seemed to be on quite a tear about politics or the government or something. Well, at least it wasn’t sports. John sidled over to Anthea. “Sir Rutherford?” he hissed at her questioningly, and she nodded.

Then, of course, he was noticed. “Is that my drink?” Sir Rutherford demanded, pointing at John.

“Yes, sir. Here you are, sir,” John replied smartly, stepping back to him.

“What are you just standing around with it for?” the man snapped, snatching it from the tray.

“Sorry, sir,” John murmured, starting to back away.

Lord Mycroft tried to escape as well. “Lovely catching up with you, but I ought—“

“Wait a minute,” Sir Rutherford ordered, and John had a bad feeling he was speaking to him. He schooled his features and looked up attentively. “This is _cold_ ,” the man sputtered with disapproval, indicating the drink.

“Sorry, sir,” John replied, not sure what he was supposed to do about that. “Isn’t it meant to be cold?”

“No, it’s not!” Sir Rutherford insisted.

“ _Very_ sorry, sir, shall I get you another one?” John offered.

“It’s disgusting!” the man went on, his dark little eyes glaring at John as though personally affronted.

John nodded sympathetically. “So, maybe something else, then?” he suggested lightly. “I hear the dirty snowball’s good.”

For some reason—probably nothing good—this made Sir Rutherford gape at him. “What?” he demanded.

“Dirty snowball,” John repeated helpfully. “Lady Sylvia’s just got one, she seems happy enough.” Actually it was the only other cocktail he knew of here. A glance at Anthea’s alarmed expression told him he was going down the wrong path. Maybe it was considered a girly drink here. “Or I can get you something else,” John offered quickly. Something told him he needed to leave, quickly. Maybe survival instinct. “How ‘bout a surprise?” he suggested brightly, taking a step away. “I’ll be right back.”

“You’ll leave when I tell you!” Sir Rutherford snapped furiously, and John froze.

“Okay,” he agreed.

Sir Rutherford pointed a meaty finger at John but spoke to Lord Mycroft. “Did you hear the way he spoke to me?!” he wanted to know.

“Yes, most disrespectful,” Lord Mycroft confirmed, but without much interest. “I’ll have him sent back to his quarters.” He gave John a pointed look.

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” he murmured, trying to back away again.

“Well take this with you,” Sir Rutherford snarled, and he splashed the drink in John’s face, and laughed.

John stood there with his eyes closed, feeling the liquid drip down his face even as the skin underneath it grew hot. He wondered if everyone in the room was staring at him, or if this was such a normal occurrence no one even bothered. He wiped his sleeve slowly over his face, knowing that what he ought to do was murmur something agreeable, or better yet say nothing at all, and creep away to his room, feeling grateful to Lord Mycroft that his immediate punishment was only that. But John’s bad habit of _thinking_ chose that moment to recur.

“You’re right, sir,” he said clearly, opening his eyes. “That _is_ disgusting. I can’t think why anyone would even order it.” As insults went it was hardly biting; probably it was more his tone and expression that led Sir Rutherford to club him on the ear, like he was an errant page boy. For such a large man he was quick, though, and packed a wallop, John realized as he staggered sideways, hoping he didn’t further his humiliation by actually falling down. Being terribly dizzy didn’t help though.

“I want him beaten,” he heard Sir Rutherford rumbling indignantly. “Talk to me that way—“

“I’ll send him to Sherlock for the night,” Lord Mycroft tossed off. “That should teach him.”

Sir Rutherford guffawed loudly. “That will! Wondered why you kept him around. That way, lad!” he added, shoving John in a certain direction that may or may not have been useful.

John’s head throbbed as he tried to find a wall to scoot along, the nearest wall to the nearest door. He needed to be _out_ of here, now, before he did something truly stupid like taking a swing back. And before he could start crying in frustration and despair.

Suddenly he was grabbed and dragged into darkness. Oh, G-d, what now, John thought, wondering if Sir Rutherford had bodyguards who were going to make sure he learned his lesson. A hand covered his uninjured ear and another held his temple on the opposite side. “John, can you hear me?” a voice murmured in the aching ear and John staggered with relief, grabbing onto Sherlock’s jacket to steady himself. “John.”

“Yes, I can hear you,” John assured him. His voice shook slightly. He caught the edge of a blinding light and turned away from it, Sherlock’s fingers on his jaw holding him in the right position.

Sherlock clicked off the torch. “Well, no permanent damage, I think,” he decided casually. “Though perhaps a little hearing loss would remind you to keep your place.”

There was no sympathy in Sherlock’s tone, which John couldn’t reasonably have expected, but it would be _nice_ , every once in a while, for someone to remember he was an actual human being. “He was just looking for an excuse,” John said, feeling a trickle of blood down his neck. It was small and already drying. “For not liking his drink, or something.”

“And aren’t you brilliant for giving him one,” Sherlock replied with deep sarcasm. “Do you actually _not_ wish to survive this experience, John? Because you seem purposefully—“

“Well why do you people _hit_ all the time?” John interrupted angrily. He still wasn’t sure where they were, a cloakroom maybe but these people didn’t need coats, they didn’t go outside and they were in the tropics anyway. “I wouldn’t treat a _dog_ the way you treat other people, just belting someone at a party like it’s the Wild West—“

“You’re lower than a dog, John,” Sherlock stated succinctly. “You’re a slave.”

John could barely see him in the darkness, a ghostly white shape hovering in front of him. The screen of his ever-present phone lit suddenly, casting ghoulish blue light over his sculpted face. “Yes,” he snapped into it. “Yes, I’ve got him.” His eyes narrowed significantly at John. “Yes, I’ll take him tonight, but I’m not doing your work for you. You want him beaten, have Greg do it, that’s his job.” This comment, undoubtedly to Lord Mycroft, was not very comforting to John.

“Well, I don’t know, I was _planning_ to work on my bacterial colonies tonight, since you asked,” Sherlock continued into the phone, sarcastically. “I could possibly get out my scorpion venom, _if_ I wouldn’t be chastised this time?” The gleam in his eye was at odds with his tone, and John didn’t think his situation had improved.

“Well, probably not, I’ve used it on myself with no permanent damage. Ha ha,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “Twenty-four hours and no roll call, because I’m doing you a favor.” Sherlock snapped off his phone definitively and dropped it into his pocket, then clapped his hands with glee. “Hear that?” he asked John. “I’ve got you for the next twenty-four hours with no roll call.” He took John’s arm and pulled him through the dark room, somehow emerging in a hallway.

“Yeah, I heard something about scorpion venom?” John checked, hoping against past experience that Sherlock was only kidding. His whole head was beginning to ache now.

“It’s quite dilute,” Sherlock dismissed. “Can you actually not walk on your own?” He let go of John’s arm impatiently, then grabbed his hand when he slowed to a stop.

“You got in trouble for using it before,” John pointed out, and Sherlock waved this off. “Considering I just got my ears boxed for bringing a bad drink, I cannot even imagine what _you_ could actually get in trouble for around here.”

In a dizzying moment Sherlock had whirled him up against the wall. “You got your ears boxed for being insubordinate,” he clarified, his blue eyes searing John’s. “You should’ve been crawling away from him, apologizing for living, not making glib remarks which were rather unimaginative as well.” He sprang away, dragging John after him again.

“Are you serious?” John demanded, when he could speak.

“I rarely joke,” Sherlock tossed off, not even looking at him.

“Crawling and apologizing for living?” John repeated in disgust. “It wasn’t my fault! I didn’t do anything wrong! Okay, there at the end—“ he conceded. “But before that—“

Sherlock blazed into his suite, practically tossing John at the couch. Or maybe John’s sense of balance just wasn’t restored yet. “You didn’t know who Sir Rutherford was, you stopped to talk to me of your own accord before delivering his drink, so it was _cold_ by the time he got it,” Sherlock listed. These transgressions were as obvious to him as how to dress properly, John realized.

“And you didn’t even know the drink was supposed to be served at a certain temperature. Most importantly”—he was looming over John on the couch now—“you don’t seem to understand it _doesn’t matter_ if it’s your fault or not, John. Do you think you’re going to be rescued?” John shrank back into the couch as Sherlock leaned closer. “Do you think you’re going to escape? Is there some reason you think this is not going to be how the rest of your life works, so you don’t need to learn the rules?”

John was breathing hard by the time he finished, tears pricking at his eyes. Yes, that was exactly what he’d been thinking, he realized suddenly. Not with any specific plan in mind, just—a vague assumption that the rest of his life _couldn’t_ be this way, that someday everything would go back to normal, or at least shift into a gear that felt more normal to him. Wasn’t that just hope, the common, everyday feeling that got people up in the morning—that someday it would be better? And if it wouldn’t be, didn’t that beg the question… why bother?

Sherlock sighed and straightened back up. With one hand he cupped John’s cheek, the unexpected gentleness taking a moment to set in. “Come on,” he encouraged, getting him up. “We’ll take a shower, then I’ll get out the scorpion venom. You know, afterwards, you’ll probably be immune to scorpion stings, and that’s a good party trick.”

“Right. Thanks,” John replied, not sure what else there was any point to saying.


End file.
